


The shot I missed

by L0chn3ss



Series: MaStar Week 2020 [4]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternative Universe- Brave (Disney Movies), Archery, Challengers of Love, Competition, Disney's Brave AU, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Merida!Maka, Poor Maka, Public Humiliation, Win her hand in marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L0chn3ss/pseuds/L0chn3ss
Summary: Maka endures a competition to win her hand in marriage as tradition allows. Towards the end of the event, she enters herself to challenge her fate, but Black Star is the obstacle she must overcome.
Relationships: Maka Albarn/Black Star
Series: MaStar Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782838
Kudos: 9





	The shot I missed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for MaStar Week 2020  
> Day 8: Gold

Beyond the boundaries of the grove was a small clearing with short grass and a leveled field. There, a crowd of onlookers whispered excitedly about the princess’s marriage prospects. Those visitors were princes (firstborn sons of clan leaders), each with their own reason for attending. Some wanted a union between territories while others wanted glory of taming the Untamable Maka.

With a crown of blonde hair that was touched with the color of moss and a cape with a deeper green than the forest she was raised in, Maka sat eerily quiet in her seat. She was kept there by her mother’s maidens (because Mama was too delicate and unbothered to be present) and by her father’s nerves (because Papa won’t let her leave from his sight). Maka sat with her back straight and her hands in her lap, the picture of royalty as always to the people, but a rumbling mountain in her heart. If another prince, high born or otherwise, smiled at her in hopes that she would respond— she would be so inclined as to sew his lips in that position for the rest of his life.

None of them were like the freedom she wanted nor the bow by her side. None of them would be the lush autumn that she enjoys nor the call of the wind that always waits for her to join. And likewise, she would never be the homely queen that she was expected to become.

Papa often cultivated her wildness, but Mama always brought them back to reality. She said in her articulate voice— that charismatic tone that won over Papa’s homelands, “Maka, you are a princess. Do act as such.”

The word enunciated the second syllable in a way that grated in Maka’s ears.  _ Prin-CESS,  _ Maka mocked behind the closed corridors of her castle wing. She would mutter angrily before disappearing through the curtains of her open window.  _ To hell with that. _

And yet, she attended the show of talent because she was expected to. She faintly reminded herself through her mother’s voice that she was still trapped by traditions. Her disdain marred her pretty face, and it so happened that someone met her eyes then.

Instead of ducking his head as any humble gentleman should, he stared back. Against the vast green and muddy brown behind, he was a sore sight. His royal tunic screamed of wealth and his bulky sword was a contrast to that, rugged and plain despite the good leather that supported its weight around his waist. Down his right arm ran cerulean tattoos that swirled across his bicep and down to his wrist. On his face was a collection of nicks and scars (one across his nose and another running down his cheek) while a fresh wound peeking from what looked like his eyebrow was covered by a bandana. No man wore head wraps in these lands, so if that weren't strange enough, it was also a bright foreign blue that matched his crystalline eyes. It’s charm swirled like the sea, and that was a force unwelcomed in her forest.

Maka broke their connection first, remembering that women should be more demure than what she’s displayed. Still, when she opened her eyes again, she saw the figure’s body move from his last few chuckles and melt back into the mass. It enraged her. If a man—  _ a boy— _ like that were to be her husband, then fate had cursed her.

It made her resolve all more solidified. When the games began, and when the games drew to a close, she will challenge the final few for her own hand.

She announced that to the three remaining prospects and to the crowd below her, standing up from her seat and walking down the pedestal against Papa’s protests. He followed her down (in her shadow) as the people parted to make way for her. She went to stand by her suitors at the archery range, and while two were noticeably shocked that a woman entered the area, the wretched blue one hadn’t batted an eye. If anything, he was amused, not upset— and that infuriated her again.

With the regality that she inherited from Mama, she announced. “I am Maka, firstborn of the Albarn Clan, and I will be shooting my own hand.” She looked to the handmaidens who were frozen, still by the chair under the canopy, daring them to stop her. When none of them came to collect her, she addressed Papa who pleaded to her under his hushed breath. “It is my right to challenge this crooked fate.”

The more established residents were horrified, unable to stop their concerned whispers. They wondered if their princess had lost her head to the harsh sun. Normally she was well-behaved— kind and quiet behind her more imposing father and likeable mother. The mercantile class, however, knew that this was the girl who roamed the streets and who bit into fresh bread without reserve. This was the Maka who they saw everyday. They laughed good naturedly, almost expecting her outburst.

While the crowd was stirred, Maka went to the bow rack and appraised the selection. They weren’t like her personally crafted ones that were safely in her room, but the flexible one that curved heavily at the tips was what she landed on. She matched it with arrows with less spine. Though practiced, Maka decided that she didn’t have the upper body strength to handle anything heavier. A few eyes were on her while she hunted down a quiver. To her annoyance, she found that the assistants would be handing her the equipment as she went down the row of targets.

As the firstborn of the land they competed on, she went first. Despite the restrictive dress she wore for the occasion, Maka managed to pull the string back and aim for the bullseye. She inhaled quietly as she was trained to do, and upon the release, she exhaled.

For the initial shot, Maka was disappointed. It was within the red center, but not symmetrical with the circle (instead it was a little to the right). She relished in the applause from her people, though. Even without a test shot or feeling the weight prior, she still hit the middle— a feat that regular hobbyists wouldn’t be able to manage unless luck was on their side.

At the next one, Maka reached behind for her back, expecting feathers to touch her finger tips, only to be met with just her hair. She heard a cough that masqueraded chuckles from her left, and immediately she knew that it was  _ him—  _ that boy. Glaring over, her suspicions were proven to be correct. He had a fist in front of his mouth to hide his smile while she pretended to stretch her arm, extending it upwards and sighing in feigned relief. She cleared her throat and the audience stopped again, ready for her next shot.

Learning quickly, Maka adjusted herself. She hit the second target perfectly, and the third one the same. The praise and uproar that rang out fueled her. She used that momentum to regard Papa, who was caught between joy and dread.

“I will win this,” she said loudly enough for him to hear, but softly enough to be carried away in the breeze.

His response was sad relief. He hoped that her words were a statement and not just an empty wish. “I know, baby.” Maka had always looked miserable in her prim braids and jeweled shoes. If she could win her freedom, Papa would not stop her.

The real challenge came when the next competitors stepped forward one at a time to best Maka’s aim. The first came from a southern territory (nomadic but friendly) where hunting game was crucial. He should’ve been good at moving targets, but it looked like he struggled with stationary ones. He hit the outer rings of two, and missed entirely on his last round.

The second was from a powerful warrior clan. It made Maka nervous, but she had no reason to be. The firstborn from there specialized in brute weapons, not precision. He won the previous tasks and advanced forward as the favored winner— and it was as far as he would go. None of his arrows flew. He broke them all instead in anger.

Finally, the Northern blue announced his name. He said confidently (with an air of dismissal under his breath), “I am Black Star, firstborn of the Star Clan—” and he turned to meet Maka’s eyes yet again, “I will be shooting for Maka’s hand.”

The weight of his declaration stopped every whisper and focused every person. After a beat of silence, disorder erupted. If he wanted attention at that moment, he earned it then. Visitors passed on his reputation while others questioned his authority. Could he shoot better than their princess? 

The audacity of that barbarian— Maka huffed. They were empty words meant to draw a reaction from her. If he wanted to terrify her, he should’ve done so before she drew her bow. Shaking her would do nothing for him while he prepared for his task. It was his turn to fail.

While the crowd was distracted, she said to him, “You.”

He bent his arrows to test their flexibility, as if to remind him of their resistance. “I believe you know my name now.” They were firm, unyielding.

Maka stifled her primal reaction. “Black Star,” she corrected herself amicably, “you are rather confident for someone who hasn’t nocked their arrow yet.

Humming (not in agreement), he did so. He looked behind him and towards the audience though, as if waiting for him to settle. “I may be.”

Something about his response and laissez faire made her want to break it. “Black Star, you know who your competition is, don’t you?”

“A prince who would rather lose than give up the plains, and a war hungry oaf who relies on brute strength.” He barely turned to look at her. “I was the clear victor from the start.”

“And?”

A few seconds pass too slowly. “Princess, are you suggesting that you stand in my way?” Black Star gives her a side glance. “With that performance?”

Maka refused to stumble. She snipped back at him, “You should know who’s hand you are fighting for. I am—”

“The firstborn of the Albarn Clan,” he cut her off. “Beloved by the common folk and protected by the elite. Rides a mare by the name of Josephine. Prefers bread encrusted with nuts from the local market. Hides in the grove outside the borders until dusk at times.  _ An archer. _ ” He turned to her fully at the last point.

Taken aback, she was unable to respond. All of those (observations at least, accusations at most) were true. Exposed by a stranger, she attempted to regather her thoughts, but they all fell through her hands. Was she not just a pawn in her mother’s domestic affairs? A trophy to be won and taken to be wedded?

Black Star mercifully filled the silence. “Princess, you surpassed your mentor at the age of twelve, then your father at fifteen. But—” His benevolence ended there. “— I did so at the age of thirteen.”

Maka bit her tongue (unsuccessfully). Her pride was known through the clan, and surely he knew of it if he pressed her so much. He wanted her to snap at him and be destroyed, and she fell for Black Star’s taunt anyway, willingly.

She said harshly, “I’m the best in these lands.”

His smile disarmed her because it was too perfect— too confident. “Then, I will be better than the best.” He left her to be shaken by him. His back was broad and his attentiveness to the target board was maddening.

Maka hadn’t realized how quiet it had gotten until he pulled back the string. His form was flawless and his breath was steady. He was experienced after all, she realized. Originally, she thought that he chose the strongest bow because the other princelings did too. The difficulty of the draw and control of the arrow were sacrificed for power. It was a poor choice for any person looking to win a competition of accuracy, but the way that Black Star handled the weapon was deliberate.

He started at the third target, aiming carefully. Upon his release, less than a second later, Maka heard a crack of wood, and her heart stuttered. His arrow that was propelled with force far greater than hers had struck and split the shaft down to the tip, embedding itself into the bullseye directly over hers.

It was all planned. From his bow to his banter, it was all a part of his horrible plot to ruin her. Maka clenched her teeth. The patience he tried to show— the pause as if he were waiting for the wind to stop— it was an act. He already knew that he wouldn’t miss. The relaxation on his face proved it.

For once, the spectators were silent. Black Star moved on quickly before any sound broke. He nocked his next arrow, and with a certain laziness on his face, broke the second the same as the initial third. A sickening snap echoed again as Maka’s arrow broke under its foe’s weight. Half of it fell off and splintered onto the ground, leaving his protruding alone.

At the final target, Maka’s first arrow hung from the middle, off centered. She didn’t forget— can’t forget. Everyone knew that Black Star could very well win with three bullseyes in a row, but Maka saw him smirk. For a brief moment, he gave her a glance (just to make sure that she was watching) and he aimed for the target.

Black Star took a slow inhale, and released his hand on his exhale. Maka didn’t look to see if he missed. She knows that he didn’t, but then, she heard a horrible and familiar sound—  _ the split of wood. _

Maka furiously turned to the target. His arrow wasn’t in the centermost area that he could’ve easily taken, obstacle free. Black Star found his own target in the form of her pride. The third arrow had struck its mark, breaking her arrow cleanly yet again for the final time.

It was unnecessary. It was a vicious display of accuracy and the last thing he could do to prove his superiority (and stomp on her mistake). He was the winner.

Maka unfurled an unfaltering trill, drowned out by the awe of the crowd. Her clansmen cheered (seemingly encouraging towards their new prince) while the other visitors who came in support for other territories accepted their loss. This was a result they could welcome because who else could be a match for the  _ Untamable. _

Knowing that she’d lost their attention, Maka grabbed her bow and an unfamiliar arrow (the closest one). She tried to redeem herself and strike the center again, but her shame clouded her perception. It only managed to land in the second ring, worse than she’s done in a long time. No one noticed, but she had— _ and he had. _

Ignoring the noise, Black Star came to Maka’s side to kneel down and kissed the hand that gripped her bow. She shook him off, discarding both him and the weapon as she tried to escape. Unfortunately, Black Star didn’t let her go too far.

He cut her path and said to her, “My, what a scary look you have,  _ Wife. _ ”

She shoved past him and went to duck under the royal canopy where she hoped that he dared not follow, leaving the celebration and her husband-to-be behind her. Except, he went after her anyway, all smiles and complete smugness.

**Author's Note:**

> Black Star won, so obviously he got Gold right?


End file.
